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The Black Raven agents with her had handed her an envelope with the report on Cruz. The envelope, still sealed, was in a drawer next to her bed. She wasn’t ready to look inside. Would whatever was in the envelope make him love her? He wasn’t capable of love—realistically she knew that. But did an I care about you trump living a life without him?

  Before she dealt with anything related to Cruz, she had to take care of herself and Blush, and that meant talking to Todd.

  “Welcome home, honey!” Her cousin strode into her office with arms outstretched, his gray suit immaculate, his hair just long enough to be sexy, his blue eyes, so like hers, bright with concern. While they were never demonstrative in the office, her door was closed, and she walked into his arms, crazy happy to see him.

  “God,” he said thickly. “It is so damn good to see you. I’ve been worried sick.”

  If he had an inkling of what she’d gone through in Louisiana, he’d have a coronary. “Are you crying into my hair?” she teased, giving him an extra squeeze around the waist before forcing a wobbly smile of her own.

  “Who wouldn’t cry into this hair?” He let her go but held her at arm’s length, critically inspecting her from head to toe and back again. “Dear God, was it chewed off in a fit of passion by that sexy lifeguard at the beach?”

  Her hair had been halfway down her back when she left. “No beach. No sexy lifeguard. But that’s a whole other story.”

  Perched with her hip on her desk, a large, raw-edged slab of black granite, she turned to take in Todd’s sartorial splendor. As always, he was a sight for sore eyes. She’d missed him. He was cousin, brother, father confessor, best friend, and then all his other hats for the company.

  Her right-hand man.

  She didn’t need a written report to assure her of his loyalty to both her and the company. He was the one person in this whole mess she’d trusted unequivocally from the start.

  Tall, elegantly thin, her cousin had the Wellington aquiline nose and the Wentworth blue eyes, and gorgeous, thick, wavy blond hair. Mia smiled. “No matter what, you always look like a Jane Austen hero.”

  “I don’t believe in having tragic love affairs, but I’m more than willing to hear the salacious details of yours.”

  “I own Blush.” Mia dusted off her hands. “Highest bid. Done deal. I got the paperwork an hour ago.”

  Cocking his head, he narrowed his eyes and said tentatively, “Congratulations?”

  “Yes. We’ll celebrate later. Let’s finish this thread before we start tugging at the next. I have a private security firm, and the police, checking into who was part of the black pool. We all agree that the hirer of the hit men will be found swimming in that murk.”

  “Makes sense— Wait—hit men? Plural?”

  “Four that I know of.” She left Cruz out of it.

  “Holy crap, Amelia!” Todd paced her office. “Four of them? I’m going to wrap you in cotton batting and keep you under my bed until we figure this out.”

  “Too hot, and difficult to make phone calls,” Mia said briskly, sliding off her desk and grabbing her notebook. She tore off the top sheet. “And definitely not my style. Take a look at this list. Tell me what you think.”

  Todd took the sheet of paper and retreated to one of the red leather easy chairs in the elegant seating area across the room. He glanced at her as he sat down. “Shouldn’t we call Basson in for this meeting?”

  She got up to join him, perching on the arm of another chair, foot swinging as she crossed her legs. May in San Francisco was downright chilly, and she was dressed in a beautifully tailored black Armani skirt suit with a narrow pencil skirl, a man-style white shirt, and red Jimmy Choos with six-inch heels. A far cry from cheap cotton shorts, a Walmart T-shirt, and bare feet.

  She felt more in control here. She was back where she belonged, but even after three days it was as though this life didn’t quite fit. Her life. But not.

  “Miles was behind this. The police are interrogating him in my private conference room right now,” she told him, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I believe he’s been working in conjunction with someone in-house to get rid of me in a depressingly permanent way.”

  Todd nibbled at his bottom lip. “Shit. You know, I’ve never particularly liked him. But he was trusted by your father—and mine, for that matter. You’d better be damn sure. He’s worked for Blush for thirty-five years. A wrongful-termination suit would be costly, to say the least. What does Legal say?”

  “To be very, very sure before I press charges. I, the Black Raven people, and the police are sure. As is Interpol.”

  “Fair enough.” He glanced at the sheet in his hand. “Only five names are uncrossed.” He glanced across at her. “Pretty much none of these would be on my list of suspects, to be honest.”

  “They weren’t on mine at the start either,” she admitted. “But by process of elimination . . . As Arthur Conan Doyle said, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ One or more of those people is working with Miles.”

  “Improbably so, you must admit.”

  “Yes. But possible, you must admit.”

  Todd stretched his arm over the back of the chair. “I’ll trust your judgment on this.” He paused. “I don’t see my name anywhere on this. I thought you were checking and double-checking anyone and everyone. I shouldn’t be an exception just because I’m your favorite cousin and you love me madly.”

  “You’re my only cousin, and I do love you madly. I also trust you like no one else. But even so, I had you just as thoroughly investigated as everyone else. So the answer to that question is, your name was on the long list, and I did put you through exactly the same scrutiny as everyone else.”

  “Good,” he said briskly, unoffended. “I always knew you were a smart woman.” He rattled the sheet of paper. “You have people dealing with these five and Miles?”

  Mia nodded.

  Todd settled back comfortably. “Good, then you have time to tell me every small detail about this delicious, hot affair of yours.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The cab pulled up on Market Street across from the impressive glass-and-steel high-rise that was Blush headquarters. Cruz handed the driver the fare and exited the yellow cab. The Financial District of downtown San Francisco was busy at midmorning with well-dressed pedestrians clogging the sidewalks. Cars, buses, and trolley cars moving up and down the steep hill added to the commotion.

  A soft, ethereal, drifting fog had pedestrians huddling into scarves thrown over overly optimistic summer clothing in early June. Wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, Cruz’s body temperature soared in anticipation of being with Mia. Thirteen days without seeing her, breathing her fragrance, or hearing her voice.

  He knew a “Fuck off” when he heard one.

  But Cruz was clinging to the hope that he still had one ace in the hole.

  He couldn’t wait another twenty-four hours to see her.

  Like a junkie waiting for his next fix, his addiction to Mia thrummed through him, better than effervescent bubbles in the finest French champagne.

  He took a moment—yeah—he was procrastinating and he knew it. He looked up at the forty-story rose-quartz-colored glass building with its soaring modern lines. An elegant pink-and-black-striped awning belled over the enormous front doors, which were flanked by two man-sized glossy black jardinières, with some sort of fluffy feminine pink flowers and lush greenery. The words BLUSH TOWER curved the span of the awning in elegant copperplate script.

  Understated. Classy. Impressive. Very Mia.

  It was insane how nervous he was about seeing her here in her natural habitat, on her turf. Going to other people’s turf to get the job done was what he had always done. This was different. Completely different. This wasn’t work. There was no neutral zone for him to regroup here or anyplace he could neutralize to give himself the advantage.

  He’d never been this nervous about seeing a woman in his life. Cruz dra
gged in a ragged breath of cool, foggy air. Standing across the street like a nervous kid on his first date wasn’t going to get the job done. He’d mentally rehearsed his bullet points, mapping out every action just as he would if this had been a hit. He’d only get one shot.

  This was a risk. Bearding her here where she was on familiar ground, surrounded by loyal employees. She was either going to be damn happy to see him, or pissed. There’d been no closure, no deadlines, no promises made.

  What they had had been dropped into a big black hole.

  She was furious. Hurt. Felt betrayed.

  He got that. He was one hundred percent at fault.

  They had to work through it. He refused to give up on them.

  That was unacceptable.

  He’d mentally given the press three days to find something of more topical interest than Amelia Wellington-Wentworth ’s takeover of her own company. She’d triumphed. Of course she had. Cruz had never doubted her dedication, power, and tenacity. Now the headlines were about some actress’s sex tapes being released on the Internet. No mention of the attempts on Mia’s life, nor any mention of any arrests.

  The person who had set out to kill her was probably laying low now, since Mia couldn’t be stopped and she got the company. That didn’t mean Mia was out of danger. Cruz knew it. He was also certain her security team knew it, since he spoke to Black Raven daily about Mia. Hell, at first Sebastian at Black Raven refused to speak to him. Then, after Cruz made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, he allowed him in the loop. Information for information. Cruz had resources and availability to intel that even the impressive Black Raven did not. He made sure her team kept Mia safe. And he made sure they didn’t tell her that he was doing it.

  Now it was time to come back into her life. Time for him to make his move and stake his claim on the CEO of Blush.

  Three cyclists pedaled by, then he had to wait for a damned lumbering bus to pass before he stepped into the street. Cruz stuffed his fingertips into his back jeans pockets as he started across the busy street. Should’ve worn a suit. . . .

  The bus moved to reveal the approach of a discreet black town car. His heart thumped in anticipation. He made a suicidal dash through traffic to the center divide just as the limo eased to the curb right in front of Blush’s doors.

  His heart leaped.

  Mia.

  An angry driver honked and swerved around him, and the muted clang of a cable car as it headed downhill toward the bay reminded Cruz where he was. She exited the car. The diaphanous fog took the sheen from her dark hair, and the beautiful cream suit hugging her curves was unfamiliar. He was used to seeing her mostly bare. His Mia. He wanted her on his Brazilian beach. Naked.

  God. He just . . . wanted her. He was so tired of the hurting and longing. He was tired of the hole in his world that could only be filled with Mia. Now all he had to do was convince her that they would make this work. Demonstrate the depth of his feelings for her. He knew she needed him to say it. He felt it, but that wasn’t enough.

  He checked for oncoming cars, then stepped off the median into the street again.

  “Mia!” Her name burst from him joyously. Love. Holy shit. He loved Mia. He loved this woman. His life was nothing but pain and awful feelings without her. She was all the good things he wanted but never had. Love.

  He loved Amelia Wellington-Wentworth. Mia. Now that his mind knew what his body had known all along, he couldn’t wait another moment to tell her. Cruz had never known such happiness, elation. He moved toward Mia. “Ameli—”

  Thip. The sound of a silencer was familiar to his ears. Stumbling to a stop, he stared with horror and complete incomprehension as blood sprayed from the bullet shot to the back of her head. She crumpled to the ground and fell out of Cruz’s sight.

  “Jesus! No.” Heartbeat manic, Cruz vaulted over the shiny black hood of her car. She was sprawled facedown on the sidewalk. Blood pooled beneath her in a sickening, ever-widening red puddle.

  “No!”

  Nearby, a pedestrian screamed, a high-pitched sound that echoed deep in his soul. Cruz fell to his knees on the sidewalk beside her, gathering her limp body to cradle her in his arms. “Please . . .” He felt individual ribs on her narrow back through her linen jacket as he clasped her tightly to his chest.

  A sob wrenched its way up his raw throat as scalding tears blurred his vision. White blurred into red.

  “No,” he whispered hoarsely into the wet, sticky mess of her hair as he pressed her slender body tightly against his chest, rocking her, eyes squeezed shut. Tears burned like acid on his lashes.

  She’d been hit. God fucking damn it. She’d been hit. The stupid fucking LBO had gone through, and she’d still been hit. His nightmare.

  A torrent of grief flooded his body in a dense black wave of anguish too intense to contain. “Mia!” His voice was broken, hoarse.

  The press of people and the susurrus of their voices were beyond Cruz’s ability to separate or even comprehend.

  Running footsteps. Sirens. Noise. Screams.

  As a kid, he’d mourned the violent death of his mother, been ripped apart emotionally for years afterward, but this . . . this was worse.

  Someone grabbed his shoulder, shouted something unintelligible. Shrugging him off, Cruz growled low in his throat, holding her even tighter as they tried to take her from him.

  She’s dead, he wanted to yell.

  He’d never see her shining blue eyes laughing up at him again. He’d never see that private smile she gave him like a gift when they lay naked and satiated. He choked back the raw pain and it sounded like the cry of a wounded animal.

  The overwhelming urge to look at her pressed like an anvil on his chest. He wanted to feel the silk of her hair against his fingers as he pushed it off her face so he could see her beauty one last time. But he knew, with sick bile rising in his clogged throat, that if he did, he’d never sleep again. Hell, he probably wouldn’t anyway.

  “The paramedics are here, buddy,” some guy said sympathetically as the siren shut off abruptly. He smelled it then. Not tuberoses. Blood. Death.

  The clang of the gurney, rapid footsteps on the sidewalk, someone talking on a comm.

  The man tugged at his shoulder. Cruz shook his head. Tightened his hold. He’d promised to protect her.

  Promised. He had failed her. Failed them.

  There wasn’t a damn thing on this earth that could ever fill the void of her loss. Or mitigate his overwhelming guilt for allowing this to happen on his watch. Fuck him. Fuck. Him.

  They had to pry his fingers off her. Had to shove him aside, a police officer holding him back, so they could lay her onto the gurney and check her vitals. The EMT turned to look at Cruz and sadly shook his head. “Don’t—” he cried, anguish making him feel wild and feral as they zipped up the black plastic bag with a grating death knell sound so final, so gut-wrenching, he couldn’t draw a breath. “Don’t,” he whispered soundlessly, crouched where he was on the crowded sidewalk.

  Frozen. Paralyzed with grief. Dry-eyed.

  They wheeled her away. His eyes tracked her until the doors slammed shut. He stared after the ambulance until it disappeared. No siren.

  He couldn’t move.

  People milled about like dark ghosts on the periphery of his vision. He was aware of the police presence, of people taking pictures with their phones, of the cool fog lifting, and of the sun’s light, but not of any feeling of warmth.

  The small black void where his heart had once been expanded to fill the rest of him.

  • • •

  Numb and feeling wooden, Cruz gave his statement to the police. The limo driver had taken off. They had an APB out on him. What the fuck did it matter now? Finding her killer wasn’t going to bring her back. Time stretched, then was truncated. Nothing felt real as he stood there on the heatless sunny street, pedestrians washing around him as if he were a rock lapped by the tide.

  He’d never hold her again, never bury his face in the fragrant
crook of her neck, never—

  No familiar, heady scent of tuberoses.

  His gaze dropped to the wide bloodstain on the sidewalk, then swiveled to look at the tinted windows of her building. His heartbeat suddenly started to gallop.

  Turning away from the detective who’d just closed his notebook, Cruz sprinted to the wide double doors, shoving the cold pink glass open with both hands. A curved black marble counter, manned by two surprised-looking security guards, stood between him and the two banks of elevators across the wide expanse of the checkered black-and-white floor. “What floor is Miss Wentworth on?” he asked without slowing down.

  “Sir, you can’t—”

  “What the fuck floor is she on?”

  “Forty, but you can’t—” The rest of his words were lost as Cruz ran past him. A security turnstile was no deterrent. He vaulted over it, then hauled ass to the closest elevator—thank God for the express elevator. The doors closed as one of the security guys came barreling after him, yelling for him to stop. Cruz slammed his palm on the button for the fortieth floor.

  The elevator rose smoothly as his heart pounded manically. A glance in the surrounding copper-framed mirrors showed a man who’d seen hell, and wasn’t sure he’d live to tell about it. His eyes looked wild. The entire front of his white dress shirt was stained red and clinging wetly to his skin.

  “God, this is crazy, but let me be right.”

  There was so much adrenaline surging through his body, Cruz’s head felt off-kilter. Dropping back, he leaned his shoulders into the corner, squeezing his eyes shut, his knees no better than melting wax.

  Pleasepleaseplease.

  • • •

  Amelia stared in deep disgust as the police slapped the handcuffs on the man who had tried to kill her . . . multiple times. In multiple ways.

  How could Miles have done this? How could he have betrayed her? How could he have betrayed her father? And the company he’d protected for more than thirty-five years?

  She glanced at the others who’d been gathered in the conference room prior to Miles’s arrest. Local police and, interestingly, Interpol as well as several of Blush’s attorneys, Todd, her assistant Stephanie, and several key Blush executives.